The Metaphysics of Morals
by justayellowumbrella
Summary: Set in season 1, Reese and Finch are working out some trust issues.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** First story ... just can't seem to get these boys out of my head. Time hops around a little, hopefully not too confusing.

Chapter 1

* * *

"Mr. Reese."

There was a hint of admonishment the first time he said it. The second time, it was a warning.

"John."

Reese tilted his head slightly at the use of the first name. Hesitated. He pulled the com bud from his ear.

He almost popped it back in, but then let it drop to the ground and fought the urge to stomp it.

Really, Reese?

Reese took a step forward and heard the crunch under his feet anyway. A untrained eye might not have noted the grimace that graced his face.

Well that decided things.

It didn't matter anyway. Finch was wrong. They weren't done here.

Their number was safe. True.

All five years of him. Gone to protective services.

But it didn't seem like a closed case. Not yet. Not deserving of the _Nice work, Mr. Reese_ , a comment that Finch had let slide over the com so gently, as though hinting that his work there was finished whether he liked it or not.

The job was to protect the boy.

The boy was safe.

Job well done.

But the monster still lived. Not just lived. Wandered the earth.

So was the job really done?

What about the next victim? There would be a next one. He was almost certain of it.

Reese caught the reflection of the man he was tailing in the bank window and turned slightly, hiding his face from view as he pretended to check his phone for messages.

There were no messages, no missed calls.

He moved forward on the street, keeping his distance but not trailing too far behind.

Who was he kidding? This guy wasn't trained to know if he were being followed. He wouldn't even expect it.

Reese narrowed the gap between them.

The man reached the curb and looked up at the traffic light, blinked his narrow eyes as it changed. Stepped out into the crosswalk.

A taxi making a turn braked heavily as the portly man stepped out in front of him without even a glance.

Reese wished he were behind the steering wheel.

Mr. Carl Stevenson kept walking, hitting the sidewalk again and then pausing at a stairway leading down. He took it.

Reese glanced at the sign above the door. A comic book shop. Really?

"Finch?" He stopped himself. A habit already. A dependency.

A weakness?

The silence in his ear felt deafening all the same.

He slipped his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen. No missed calls. No messages.

It would ring if he were needed. If there were another number.

Stevenson was back up the stairs almost as quickly as he was down them and Reese was suddenly glad for his hesitation in following. He moved his profile sideways again as the man headed back in the same direction he had come.

He glanced back at the storefront. _Closed_.

Stevenson was moving again before Reese could be too annoyed at himself for missing the sign initially, and he picked up the pace of his stride to match the man's.

The second stop was an unpopular pub. It almost looked closed itself, but he heard a jingle as the door open and shut, heard an echo of voices from the inside.

Reese hesitated. He glanced again at his phone, sliding it from his pocket.

Nothing.

The last time he had cut his employer off, the reinitiation of contact had been immediate.

He followed Stevenson.

* * *

A peace offering, perhaps.

Finch didn't even hear his footsteps, just the crinkle of the pastry bag as it found his desk. A styrofoam cup followed, a distinct wafting of Sencha green emanating from the lid.

He was waiting for the day when he would actually hear Reese before he was at arm's length. When Reese would let him hear him.

Finch slid the cup backwards to a safer distance from his keyboard and immediately regretted the quick motion of pushing it away when he saw something akin to hurt flicker across Reese's face.

It was gone as quickly as it came. A perfectly sculpted expression of ... nothing, really, replaced it. "Do we have another number?"

Finch turned, a movement not just of his neck but his body with it, stiffly almost, but second nature.

He took in the rumpled shirt, the darkened eyes, the slightly disheveled hair. A slight hint of stale beer. He could ask Reese if he had slept even an hour the prior night but the image in front of him didn't necessitate it.

Finch wondered if he had made the right decision. Perhaps they were moving too quickly.

Did he have a choice?

"Finch?"

"We do, Mr. Reese." Finch pivoted back to his screen, brought up a quick window. Felt his employee move closer. "Adam Lowes. Mechanic on Atlantic."

"Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Some outstanding debts, a penchant for gambling. An ongoing divorce." Finch was swiftly bringing up window after window on the screen. "Perhaps an affair...?"

Security footage of the mechanic's shop, Elmo's. It looked busy. There was a used car lot next to the property.

"I'll get to it then."

"Mr. Reese."

Reese turned back, a question on his face until he saw Finch's hand out.

Palm open, outstretched. An ear bud.

Reese hesitated and then reached for it. He didn't expect the slight tap to his wrist as he took it. His eyes met Finch's.

"Don't do it again."

Finch saw it then, the challenging look in Reese's eyes. The silent, subtle defiance.

Defiance because perhaps he was starting to trust?

Or maybe just the opposite. Finch leaned back in his chair but didn't break eye contact. He studied him carefully. Another time.

"The car you used last week," he started, redirecting the dialogue.

Reese braced himself for another potential chastisement. He broke his gaze, looking back at the computer screen. Shifted his stance.

Finch continued. "The one you chose to use as a rather... striking conversation piece?"

Said car had been decidedly rammed into their target's brand new convertible.

"I won that conversation," Reese offered. He looked back to Finch, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

Finch almost looked amused. "Indeed. Said car will be at Elmo's this afternoon. I suggest you have a conversation regarding your deductible."

* * *

The number, Adam Lowes, eyed him from behind the counter and whistled.

"Man... You were in it? What the hell, man. Not even a scratch?"

Reese gave a smile, a shrug. He could feel the bruising from last week, when he thought about it. An tender rib, maybe, here or there. But Finch was listening. "Nothing broken."

"What happened?"

"Some guy ran a light." Some guy was him, of course.

"Damn... He must have been going fast."

No comment. Reese leaned against the counter, watching the man type slowly at the keyboard.

"So we took a look earlier..." Adam looked up. "Honestly, it's totaled, man. It'll cost more to fix it than it's worth at this point."

Reese frowned.

"I mean, we can do it." Adam clicked a few times at his mouse impatiently before the window changed on the screen. "Your insurance just won't cover it."

Reese paused just a second. "That's not a problem."

Adam looked up, a questioning look on his face.

Reese gave a crooked smile. "Sentimental to her... I can pay. Whatever it takes."

 _"Mr. Reese."_

The warning tone in his ear this time made Reese's lopsided smile genuine. He took it as a challenge.

"How's that work, do you need a deposit now or...?" Reese shifted his stance against the counter.

Adam nodded. "Yeah, man. Yeah. That'll work." He typed again at the computer, cursed under his breath. "Hate this thing." He cleared his throat. "We'll have to order parts." He was looking behind him now, through the glass that separated them from the main garage. There were two men there, one in mechanic's coveralls, the other not. He looked back at Reese and then back to the computer, a sudden sheen of sweat visible on his brow.

"Whatever she needs." Reese pulled out his phone, bluejacking Adam's as the man struggled again with the program on the screen. His eyes skimmed the small waiting area.

"It's not very good," Adam offered, watching him approach the older coffee machine in the corner.

Reese glanced back over his shoulder at the man as he planted a small bug that would give them eyes. "It'll do..." He pushed a weak styrofoam cup under the appliance's spout, covering his motions. Pressed the button. The machine coughed to life. He frowned a little as he watched the brown liquid fill the cup, thicker than expected.

Stepping back to the counter, Adam was finishing up. He looked up, rubbed a hand across his cheek. Reese noted the gold band on his finger.

"If you can pay in cash... even any of it, I can get you a discount." It was said cautiously, as Adam eyed him. "Just saying, man. I can help you, you can help me, you know what I mean?"

Reese nodded. "Sure." Gaining some trust. He wondered what kind of money trouble this guy was in.

* * *

Finch was not surprised the first time he was tailed by Reese.

He had been expecting it.

And Reese was good, he would give him that.

Had he not expected it, he may have even missed it, given something away. He even assumed he had lost the tail, more times than one, only to catch a glance in a window, a rear view mirror.

If not for knowing that profile so well now, even the back of the head, he might have let down his guard.

But Finch's livelihood had been staying alive, unfollowed, for years.

As things stood, after the first few times, Finch's guard was down enough to consider it a game.

"The gentlemen who just entered, table seven by the door..." As Finch settled his tab, he stood from his booth and slipped the waitress another bill. "His dinner is on me."

The girl glanced at table seven, a smile starting on her lips.

Finch, seeing her expression, could only shake his head.

He slipped out the side door as table seven was eagerly approached.

* * *

In Adam's apartment, a very vocal tabby cat was rubbing against Reese's leg. He surveyed the nearly empty room, absently bending to stroke the feline. It arched its back in approval.

"Not much here..." Reese's eyes went to the sagging black futon along the one wall with any furniture.

The cat followed him as he moved, crying plaintively. He peeked in the bedroom and kitchen, briefly, before coming back to the main area. Reese noted the light brown dusting on one side of the couch's black mattress. Mud?

He glanced up. Drop ceiling.

"What are we hiding..." He stepped up onto the mattress. It sagged but held his weight as he reached up toward the ceiling and pushed up one of the stained ceiling tiles.

"Finch, you there?"

"Always, Mr. Reese."

"Lowes may have a gambling problem, but money is not the issue." He quickly scanned the dusty stacks. "There's gotta be a quarter mil here."

He snapped a few photos as he perused the remainder of the apartment.

"Perhaps he's skimming from the shop?"

In the kitchen, the cat was tripping him, or trying to. A desperate meow. He glanced at the empty food bowls in the corner of the linoleum.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, Mr. Reese."

"Not you, Harold."

"Feeding the pets falls outside your job description, Mr. Reese." The voice on the other end of the com was not amused.

Reese was already snapping open the container of cat food and pouring a healthy amount of kibble into the dish.

As the feline purred, Reese had a funny feeling. A prickle on the nape of his neck. He lifted an ear, staying in a squatting position. Purring and... nothing. He shifted his weight, starting to stand. Then he heard it.

Sometimes his inner sense was the one that he needed the most. The one that kept him a step above the rest.

Moving to the edge of the kitchen, he slid silently out its side door just as two men barged in the back one that was his initial entrance.

Reese swung around the front of the house, noting a dark sedan two doors down that had not been there upon his arrival.

"Sending you a plate, Finch..."

* * *

Reese didn't quite understand how someone who walked with a limp had evaded him more than once.

Admittedly, he hadn't tried hard the first time. Hadn't realized he had to. But more than once was now turning into near a dozen times.

He would almost think Finch was faking the gait if not for the honest stiffness and pain he had occasionally seen the older man wear during the short course of knowing him.

Yet somehow, Finch seemed able to disappear. Anywhere.

And this.

 _This._ Reese felt like he was being punished.

MoMA for over two hours now, no, make it three. Reese glanced at the clock on the wall. Finch knew he was following him.

Finch was testing his patience.

Meanwhile, the woman next to him pressed closer, trying to get a better look at the work hanging in front of them.

She wasn't trying to get a better look. He could smell her perfume.

He sighed.

"I know. Beautiful, isn't it?" She glanced at him, a cautious smile. Her voice was near a whisper.

He smiled back, not cautious at all, but it didn't reach his eyes.

She didn't notice.

"It really... Just gets to me, you know? Like an emotional stab in the heart."

What? Reese looked back to make sure they were still both looking at the same piece.

A single red dot in the midst of a pure white canvas.

"Mm-hm."

He could stab someone in the heart, yes.

She was saying something else. He wasn't listening.

He wanted a drink.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Finally.

"Duty calls," he said, slipping the phone out, hardly glancing at it. He smiled at her, this time genuine. "Enjoy."

She was turning. "Would you want-"

But he was gone.

She frowned, her eyes surveying the room, trying to find the suit in the midst of bodies.

He had vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

"The one part is in." There was a girl behind the counter at Elmo's. Heavy makeup, mostly foundation. "I'll have to check but I think they're still waiting on the rest."

Reese's eyes were beyond her, into the garage. He looked back at her, shifted his attention.

"It's an older model." She looked apologetic. "Sometimes it can take a little longer to track down parts."

A door slammed, making her jump. Adam. She glanced at him, something washed over her face. Then gone.

"Hey babe," he said, stepping into her space behind the desk. His presence seemed to push her back physically. He looked at Reese. "Hey man. Did Dee tell you we're gonna need more cash?"

She hadn't, but Reese saw the look on her face. Apparently she was supposed to.

He saw the heavy foundation again, caked especially thick on the one cheek. The long sleeves, even in the hot office.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"She did," he murmured.

"Great."

* * *

"We're done here, Mr. Reese."

There was silence on the other end of the com. Finch could hear sirens in the distance, but nothing more. A breath, maybe.

"Mr. Reese."

Still no response. He heard a change in breathing, a rustle. Something clanked in the background.

"Mr. Reese. Get out of there."

Nothing.

" _John_."

A pause. "I _hear_ you, Finch."

"Yes, but do you hear me?"

It wasn't truly a question. The tone behind it already had its answer.

"Har-"

"Do you hear me."

A pause. "Yes."

"The police are minutes away."

"I get that, Finch. Just..." There was another clanking sound, a faintly muttered curse. Then not so faint.

Finch started to disapprove and then stopped himself. Really, Harold? His language is what bothers you right now?

"Mr. Reese, get out of there. Time is of the essence."

No answer.

The line went dead.

* * *

When Finch wasn't in the library, Reese often was.

He would slowly trail the stacks. Sometimes, he picked locked doors, never finding much of interest.

He enjoyed the smell of the books, the dim lighting in the back recesses.

He felt safe. Calm.

Finch too, perused the stacks, he could tell. He could see the patterns in the dust. Oftentimes there would be a different set of books at the desk in the main room.

Finch's tastes seemed rather eclectic.

Sometimes Reese sat at that main desk, swiveling in the executive chair and staring at the computer console.

After picking every locked drawer at the ancient desk, he had turned his attention to the mix of screens. The blinking cursor, the tempting keyboard and mouse.

He reached for the mouse, then pulled his hand back. Not today.

Reese slid one of the books from the recent pile toward himself instead and swung his feet onto the top of the desk, shifting his weight back into the chair.

Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, Finch? He smirked, running his thumb down the spine.

It might have been minutes, it might have been an hour.

"Comfortable, Mr. Reese?"

Regardless the passage of time, hardly a few pages in. The book was slipped gently from his hands. In its place, a 5x10.

Reese looked down at the photo, frowning.

He glanced up at Finch, who had a similar frown at his feet still on the desk. Reese dropped his legs with a dull thud.

"Franklyn McGinley. Five years old."

* * *

"If you're worried, Finch, don't be."

The tone was annoyed. But Reese wasn't annoyed. Right now, he was restless.

Finch eyed the figure draped on the floor. Reese's back was heavy against the desk, legs sprawled in front of him as he cleaned his gun. Only his profile was visible.

"Must you do that in here?"

Reese glanced up at him. A half smile graced his lips. It wasn't the first time that conversation had played out.

Finch noted the dried blood on the edge of his hairline. He went back to typing.

He would have to get another chair in the room.

Reese rolled the metal in his hands. He shifted on the floor, rolled his left shoulder.

Finch watched him from the corner of his eye.

"I didn't kill him."

"I didn't ask, Mr. Reese."

* * *

His own apartment, a view of a brick wall.

Reese turned from the window, took a swig of his beer, rubbed a palm down his face.

Temporary living situations didn't provide him with too many upgrades.

He eyed his mattress on the floor. Between its own comfort level and the images that haunted his dreams, sleep wasn't the most attractive option.

Especially now that he was trading drunken slumbers for more productive mornings, most nights at least.

He paced the empty wall, took another swig. Adjusted the waistband of his sweatpants. He had put on weight quickly enough in the past few weeks, but the scale was starting to slide the other way again.

He stretched, pushing a flat palm against the wall. He really needed to figure himself out.

Reese glanced at the clock. At least another six hours before he could even show up at the Library and expect to find Finch.

He rolled his neck.

At least it felt like a team, working with Finch.

Working with Kara, she had exposed his every weakness. Feasted on it.

He hadn't had much, if any, say in their actions then, working with her, under Snow. If anything, he learned his every weakness, knew which ones Kara hated, which ones would make her punish him later.

Not that he wasn't good at what he did. He may not have liked killing people, but he was very good at it.

Even if he didn't know what some of them had done to deserve it.

Finch on the other hand. Finch was a hard read.

One thing for sure, he was pretty certain he had mastered the art of pissing him off, at least lately.

And Finch didn't seem to like killing people.

Sirens suddenly filled the quiet as Reese took a final drink from the bottle of beer.

He then tried push-ups, until his arms were breaking.

He then tried sit-ups, until he lost interest.

He then tried sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring at the wall.

A television turned on somewhere behind the paper thin walls and he fell back on the sagging mattress, chest rising and falling deeply as it echoed in his head.

He closed his eyes. Opened them. Looked at the clock.

He sighed.

Whiskey night it was.

* * *

"She wasn't the number, Mr. Reese."

"She will be."

"That's not for us to predict," Finch said bluntly. Reese was pacing, a caged animal.

"Is it fun for you? Playing God? Picking and choosing-"

"Picking and choosing?"

"Deciding who gets hurt, who doesn't-"

There were times lately, too many times, that the moral backbone lining Reese's words reminded him oh so much of Nathan.

But he had been down that path himself. Haunted by it. Finch closed his eyes.

"It doesn't end at the number," Finch allowed. "Be that as it may-"

"It's not enough, Finch."

He hadn't heard so many words from Reese at once, ever.

Finch wasn't even listening now, he was growing exasperated at the sudden barrage.

"Will you _stop_?"

Eyes shot at him.

"Take a walk, Mr. Reese."

Reese stared at him, quieted. "What?"

"Take a walk," Finch repeated. He turned his body back to the screen.

"Are you kicking me out, Finch?" Reese didn't know what he was looking for from his employer. A fight, a lecture, some type of rebuttal. An answer.

"I'm telling you to take a walk, John." Finch's voice was tired. "Go do whatever it is you do when you're not...here."

I follow you, Reese wanted to say. I come here, when you're not around.

"Is that an order, Finch?" His words were sarcastic, defiant.

Finch turned his body now, raising a single eyebrow. "Does it have to be?"

But Reese was already gone.

* * *

Nathan, too, had struggled with the opacity of the machine.

How could they ignore the information being handed to them, how could they not save the life of a person in imminent danger.

But where did it end?

Finch swiveled in his chair, glanced at the empty doorway, back to his screen.

The new algorithm he was developing stared at him. He looked to the half-eaten carton of Chinese next to his keyboard and sighed, leaning back into his chair.

He knew he wasn't making any progress tonight. The lines of code mocked him.

Finch picked up the Kant book he had found Reese reading, or pretending to read- he couldn't tell with him. He flipped open to the first few pages.

Reese was becoming more and more reckless. Finch was beginning to fear that the man's newly found notion of self-preservation was teetering. He hid his injuries well, alarmingly so, but Finch wasn't an idiot.

At first he questioned how an ex-CIA operative, an ex-killer really, could become so sensitive to even the smallest hurts in the world.

But as cases went on, Finch was realizing that it wasn't that at all. No, John Reese had always been humane.

Now, contrary to his previous work, each mission presented him a choice. No set written order to be carried out, no ultimatums. Just the one charge to do the right thing, whatever that might be.

Therein lay the moral imperative.

There was no standard operating procedure for the Machine's use. Siphoning the irrelevant numbers, making them relevant.

Deciding when to come home.

It was something Finch was still trying to figure out himself.

* * *

Reese stopped at the address Finch had given him, taking in the grand looking hotel. Just one more address to check out tonight, Finch had said.

Moving past the bellhop and through the lobby, Reese hit the button to the elevator.

His eyes surveyed the lobby, nearly empty. It was past midnight, few up at that hour here. A massive chandelier sparkled from the ceiling's expanse.

Ninth floor.

The elevator dinged and he stepped out, moving down the carpeted hall. Room 918. He checked the hallway and started working the lock.

The door opened. Reese pulled his gun from his waistband before slowly stepping through.

The room looked untouched, freshly made up in fact. He stepped forward, noting the set of keys on the desk. Fresh towels.

He peeked in the bathroom. Marble. Spotless.

He lowered his weapon.

"Finch?" Reese surveyed the room again, trying to figure it out. The window overlooked Central Park. "What am I doing here?"

"Sleeping."

Reese frowned.

Finch seemed to sense his hesitation. "It's okay. I know the owner."

A pause. "Are you the owner?"

"Good night, Mr. Reese."

* * *

"New car?"

"Just borrowing."

Fusco eyed the green Audi suspiciously. "I don't even wanna know."

"Good." Reese smiled at him agreeably and pulled a bag from the passenger seat. He tossed it to Fusco. "I need a favor, Detective."

Fusco opened it cautiously. Looked up with a glare. "What the hell?"

"I made a little... bust."

"You don't say." Fusco shook the bag, groaning. Pounds and pounds. "Falls a little outside your job description, don't ya think?"

"Well if you did _your_ job-"

"Oh really, funny guy."

"I've got a guy for you too, nice and simple. You'll be a hero today."

" _A_ guy," Fusco repeated dryly. The glare wasn't letting up. "You mean _the_ guy?"

"C'mon, Lionel. You're the detective here."

"Something tells me Glasses didn't put you up to this."

Reese gave him a tired look.

Fusco just stared at him, incredulous. "You're serious."

Reese said nothing, held his stare. He was serious.

"And if I say no?"

A corner of Reese's mouth tugged up. "I'll be in touch, Lionel."

Fusco shook his head as the man in the suit walked away. Son of a bitch.

He swore under his breath. "And the guy?"

Reese didn't even turn around.

"He's in the trunk."

* * *

Reese's cell buzzed in his pocket. He glanced down, raised the phone to his ear.

"Are you simply going to lurk back there, Mr. Reese?"

Reese eyed the back of his employer's head from his shadowed vantage point. He smiled slightly, impressed.

Well played, Finch. An arranged meeting, under the Brooklyn Bridge, without him even knowing.

Minutes passed. Reese sank down next to him on the bench, his eyes staring ahead to the East River.

"Mr. Reese, I understand your frustration with the Machine's... lack of clarity."

"Finch."

"Just listen." Gentle but firm. "Bad things happen to people every day. We can stop that. To a point."

Reese shifted in his seat, rocking one knee side to side.

A minute passed.

"The numbers keep coming," Finch continued softly. A flock of pigeons, cooing and fluttering. He felt a stiffening next to him. "We can dig down the lineage of each and every individual we encounter, trying to fix each singular peril in their lives..."

Reese said nothing, even when he felt eyes on him. He kept his gaze forward, scanning the expanse.

"Or..." Finch trailed off, still watching him. At the end of the day, he wanted to say, some of this must be left to fate.

Reese broke his silence. "Or we just trust in the Machine."

"In a sense."

Reese met his eye. He didn't trust the Machine, not yet.

But he was starting to trust its creator.

A minute passed.

Then, "Do you like Italian, Finch?"

Finch frowned.

Reese looked back at him, expression serious. "Do you eat at Luca's a lot?"

Finch gave him a pointed look. "I told you Mr. Reese-"

"Yes, yes, you're a very private person, Harold. We know."

Finch shifted sideways, eyeing him suspiciously.

Reese raised his eyebrows, as if still waiting for the answer.

Finch sighed, making a decision.

Giving in.

Shifting his weight forward, he got to his feet stiffly and turned to face the younger man. "Well?"

Reese, still seated, gave him a questioning look. "Well?"

"Chop, chop, Mr. Reese." Finch's voice was impatient. "You'll never get a table after eight." He turned and started to walk away, not waiting for an answer.

Reese didn't bother to hide his grin.


End file.
